Season I | Episode II | Chapter II

Well, Tarrick’s life as a Chronicler starts out weird indeed.

He’s climbing up a hill. After Mr. Osxian, Ralofina’s neighbour and, now that he remembers, also her private music teacher. Tarrick’s not following Mr. Osxian, though. He’s following Grandma. Who’s holding Mr. Osxian’s paw into hers. As if he were a child crossing the road. They’re only the three of them; Prothea decided to stay home. And take care of the Lennox. Why? If by some odd chance or miracle, the canal workers were back and they could be set off on their way again, she could come and tell them to come back. That seems unlikely, though. The sun is setting, turning the sky and its clouds to pinks and oranges. The moon appears, even before the stars do. Meanwhile, Tarrick climbs. And Osxian whines. And Grandma doesn’t give Osxian an inch of space to whine. As usual, then.

“Mrs. Zylgella, please! Listen to me. I don’t want anything to do with what my great-uncle had. I don’t care about his estate! He was strange and distant and I never liked him. No one did.”

“I do know Old Leohomin, may he rest in peace, wasn’t a great fellow. But he was my father’s friend and he taught me how to play cards once upon a time and I won’t let you throw away the chance to honour his memory! Do you know what he’s gifted you?”

Ah, yes. The good old “my great-uncle gave me some strange inheritance and now I have to step up into his shoes even if I don’t want to” schtick. Is that a schtick? In any case, it doesn’t really matter to Tarrick. They still have to climb up that hill on the side of a mountain, even higher than High Tobain. He really hopes there’s some warm food waiting for him. Or a bath. Maybe both. Both sounds amazing.

What did Old Leohomin give to his great-nephew anyway?

“A legacy, that’s what,” says Grandma. “You don’t have to follow in his footsteps. You can do whatever you want with it. But do it well. That’s all I’m asking you.”

They finally reach the top of the hill. Tarrick wants to die. Or turn into a puddle. Or, again, both. Tarrick leans his paws against his knees, catching his breath. Mr. Osxian does, too. Grandma barely looks out of breath. She taps her cane impatiently against the rocky ground. There’s a beautiful view from up here, but Tarrick can’t take the time to look. Grandma stretches her arms wide on either sides of her.

“You’re sure this is here?”

“Yes,” huffs Mr. Osxian. “The letter said to go here.”

Right. The letter Mr. Osxian had woken up to in the morning, weeks after his great-uncle’s passing, as he’d explained earlier.

But there’s nothing here. Only a big grey rocky hill, some sort of middle step between the ravines.

Empty.

Wait.

Not quite.

Upon giving the hill a closer look, Tarrick sees… ruins. They’re small and blend in with the environment. But they’re there. Too carved to be natural. Ruins. Old blocks pile in the shape of… Tarrick can’t really tell. Is that a wall? Could that have been a wall, once upon a time? Tarrick walks closer into the square of ruins. That was a wall. And that was another wall. But nothing else remains. He remembered Old Leohomin as a strange Davrian indeed, spending his last few days in the town’s nursing home playing cards and telling everyone who would listen about how he couldn’t wait when the time would come. Tarrick had never come to visit, but he’d heard about him through the town’s gossip. That was a few weeks ago. Was Old Leohomin strange enough to… gift his great-nephew old ruins?

Surely they’d have to send for an archaeological team, now. There ought to be treasure hidden here.

“Hey… what is that?”

Tarrick spins around. Mr. Osxian has walked up to the highest standing wall. It’s closest to the second ravine and almost completely blends in with the sheer rock. You can barely see the stones. Everything is covered in vines. Grandma takes out her pocket knife from inside her purse and starts to cut away at the vines. Tarrick steps closer. There! He sees it! There’s a door. An old door, wood half-eaten by insects, bronze doorknob turned green in splotches. The keyhole looks… brand new, though. How strange.

Strange like Old Leohomin was.

“Should we… try to open it?” Tarrick suggests. Unsure.

“Great-Uncle gave me the letter,” says Mr. Osxian, paw in his pocket. “He also gave me this.”

A bronze key glistens in the sunset’s last light.

“He gave you… a key?”

“It was in the envelope. I wonder… if…”

The key fits right in the keyhole. Tarrick holds his breath. Mr. Osxian turns the key.

Light pours in. Blinding. Tarrick can’t see anything but searing white. Groans reach his ears. They’re drowned out by a low sound. Kind of the screech of a cat-owl. But not quite. It’s different. Raw. It becomes louder and louder. Higher-pitched by the second. He’s never experienced Meaning that made sound before. Because this is Meaning. More concentrated than he’s ever felt. Goosebumps bloom on his arms and he starts to tremble. Then nothing. Tarrick’s ears buzz. But the sound is gone. Red and white luminous spots light the inside of his eyelids. But there’s no more light. As soon as it has started. It all ends.

Tarrick opens his eyes. And gasps.

The wall has expanded. It’s become the front entryway of a massive piece of infrastructure. There’s a house here now. No, not a house. A mansion. Three storeys of massive windows are lined along a cream-coloured wall. Columns support the front door porch. The wall stretches out far to his left and far to his right. The mansion is as wide as the hill can stretch. That’s when Tarrick realizes. His eyes widen. This is only the front part of the fortress. The rest disappears inside the ravine’s rock. How far deep into the mountain does that building go? How fascinating!

“What is this place?” asks Tarrick.

Even no-nonsense Grandma looks awed. “It’s beautiful.”

“It’s Rockwell Mansion.”

Grandma and Tarrick both look at Mr. Osxian.

“You know this place?”

“I remember…” Mr. Osxian’s voice is soft and low. Revering. His paw is still wrapped around the key in the keyhole. “Great-Uncle Leohomin told me a story when I was a child. But I always thought… I always thought it was just a story. A legend. About a mansion inside a mountain. Filled with Meaning.”

“Filled with Meaning?”

“Yeah.”

They stand there. Unsure whether to move or not.

Grandma isn’t one to wait, though.

“Come on. Let’s go.”

Mr. Osxian turns the doorknob and opens the door. Energy prickles in Tarrick’s fur, from the tip of his nose to his toes. It’s a feeling Tarrick has come to recognize, after he opened the suitcase he still keeps safely under his bed on the Lennox. The feeling of Meaning saturating the air. Tarrick steps inside the mansion. He’s greeted by soft purple and gold-starred carpets that swallow the sounds of footsteps. Warm lights are lit in lanterns on wall sconces. A hundred coats and shoes pile on the floor. They’re in a long, thin hallway. Not the kind of grand entrance Tarrick was half-expecting.

Thump, thump, thump.

Was that the door? No. That came from… up front.

Someone’s coming. But he doesn’t see anyone. Tarrick frowns.

“Hello?”

A gentleDavrian’s hat turns around the corner. Yes. A floating gentleDavrian’s hat. It walks towards them. Up, down, up, down. With each footsteps. A gentleDavrian’s waistcoat, white shirt, pants and shoes accompany the hat. But the person is… how incredible…

“You’re invisible,” points out Osxian, gobsmacked.

“Good deduction, detective,” says Grandma, rolling her eyes.

The invisible gentleDavrian tips his hat. Tarrick does the same thing. He jumps up and down and Tarrick can’t help but smile at that. The butler walks around them and grabs their coats. It feels weird. Invisible hands grabbing his coat and pulling. Tarrick chuckles.

“Why, thank you!”

Mr. Osxian’s, Grandma’s and Tarrick’s coats all end up being dumped unceremoniously on top of the pile. He’s a butler then. Probably. The invisible butler beckons them forward. At least, that’s what Tarrick thinks he’s doing. His sleeves move. Towards them and towards him. Tarrick squints his eyes. Is he actually beckoning them forward? It’s hard to tell when you can’t see someone’s hands. Or when they don’t talk. Because the invisible butler doesn’t talk. Maybe he’s just shy?

Tarrick opens his mouth. He hears himself say: “I think he wants us to…”

Grandma takes the buffalo-cow by the horns.

“All right, boys! Let’s go.”

She starts after the invisible butler. Mr. Osxian looks at Tarrick. Tarrick stares back.

“She’s your Grandma.”

“Yeah. She’s my Grandma.”

They follow after her. Old portraits of Mr. Osxian’s family members - young Davrians wearing monocles, top hats, high-collared dresses, feathered fans and fancy moustaches - line the walls. There’s an entire family tree on that wall and Mr. Osxian points at each one of them.

“That’s Great-Great-Great-Aunt Lunxenida. She was a scientist. Blew herself up during an experiment gone wrong. I think she was trying to find the cure for the common cold. Oh! That’s Great-Great-Great-Great-Uncle Stronomyorin. He loved to go swimming and was caught in a hurricane. That’s…”

Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.

But apart from that, this great mansion feels a bit boring from the inside. Tarrick swallows down his disappointment, though. He keeps moving forward.

His bright spirits are soon rewarded.

The hallway opens up into a grand room. Sounds fill Tarrick’s ears. It’s as if he’s been underwater all this time and his head has just broken the surface. He hears them now. Squeals of joy. Laughter. Lively music. Loud conversations reach him. The room is as lively as the music. Bright colours cling to the walls. Snow falls in a cloudless sky through tall windows that should be showing nothing but caves. Young Davrians in brightly-coloured costumes dance around the ballroom while others, sitting in front of an enormous fireplace filled with blue fire, play cards. Blue and cream and orange puffs of smoke flicker in and out. A little colourful being, blue and cream and orange, appears and disappears. Its laughter appears and disappears with it. Green candles are lit up high in golden chandeliers. Tarrick sees… He sees something in the flames. Grandma grabs Tarrick’s arm and pulls him down. He hears the whistle a second later. A tiny train flies by on invisible tracks. It choos-choos happily.

Yet none of those things seem to have grabbed Mr. Osxian’s attention, Tarrick notes

He’s looking elsewhere. At someone, to be precise.

An old-fashionably dressed Davrian arrives, a cup of unspecified liquid in hand. A young Davrian.

“Great-Uncle Leohomin?”